


Never Comes The Day

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: A Question Of Balance [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spanking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-08
Updated: 2008-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been too long, and Sam is starting to itch for it.</p><p>Spanking as a metaphor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Comes The Day

_July 23, 2000_

It's been weeks, even months since Sam has gotten a good spanking, and he can't stop thinking about it. For some reason lately he's been getting phantom tingles, like a hand across his ass. And when he catches half an hour alone, he bends over and traces the area with his fingers, slaps experimentally before he jerks off—hard and fast before Dad shows up again. It doesn't work, of course. The angle's all wrong, and when his palm connects it glances off with a soft thud and his shoulder's too tight. He can't hit the curves, where he feels it the most. He can't produce any impact, any lasting warmth.

He tries to rationalize it sometimes to himself, more and more when it's been too long since his last spanking. He goes for the easiest answer: it's all his dad's fault. It's the way he was raised, he reasons: to him, it's a symbol of stability. It's something that belongs in the life he never had. You fuck up, you get punished. He wants normal, and while no other kid he has ever met gets told to clean the guns, or get up an hour earlier to train, or do pushups to cool off, he can see that happening in a normal family: you fuck up, someone cares enough about it to spank it out of you. And that's why lately he's been fucking up.

Except if he gives it too much time, he knows that's not true. Because he's not doing enough to piss Dad off and earn himself a John Winchester ass-blistering. It's little stuff, things like leaving the water running, forgetting to whisper in the woods, or once tripping and--accidentally, really--sending a curse box flying through the window. Which was closed. And Dad's been annoyed, sure, given him a few warnings. But Dean's watching him, and Sam knows he's been keeping count. And that's what he can't just write off, why he can't just say he's asking for a spanking. Because he doesn't want Dad to spank him. It's been over a year and now they stand eye-to-eye, even while they don't see eye-to-eye. But Sam can easily imagine his skinny, lightweight body being hauled over John's knee, the hand cracking down across his backside. The crying. The apologies and promises that are too little, too late to stop his behind from being roasted. And that thought makes his dick go soft in his hands as a lump of iron forms in the pit of his stomach, cold and heavy, impossible to dissolve. Because despite the way he feels sometimes, he does not want a spanking from his father.

Dean, on the other hand...and that's something else Sam doesn't like to think about. He tells himself that he thinks about Dean spanking him when he jerks off because that's what would happen if Dean found him. Dean would tease him, tell him he was being a bad little boy, and _do you know what happens to bad little boys, Sammy?_ Sam knows. What he doesn't know is whether he speeds up at these thoughts because he doesn’t want to get caught, or because he does.

And then Dad announces one night that he’s leaving the next morning for a spirit out of Tulsa. _Tulsa._ He’s going to be gone for a few days, maybe over a week. And Sam’s stomach plummets as his dick springs to life. He excuses himself, trying to be inconspicuous but flushing. He can hear Dad and Dean talking about it in low voices from behind the closed door. Dean has a reasonable solution—he always does, always has excuses—and they agree Sam’s just angry about John leaving again. It doesn’t take much to upset Sam these days.

“Your brother needs to watch that attitude,” Dad says grimly.

Dean’s voice is intolerably calm. “I’ll talk with him about it tomorrow, Dad.”

Sam doesn’t sleep much that night. He lies awake for hours, unable to turn off the synapses firing in his brain. He reaches behind his back, rubbing his bottom through the thin cotton pajama pants. He jerks his hands away and flips over to stare at the clock. It’s after midnight. It’s tomorrow.

That morning he stays in bed as long as he can, but he’s a Winchester. He’s used to getting up, meeting the day and whatever it brings. Besides, he has to go to the bathroom by eight anyway. He gets into the shower and tries not to think about it, but it’s not the sort of things he can forget. Before he knows it he’s gripping the base of his cock, Dean’s words ringing through the running water. They’ve burned themselves into his brain, and he can hear them like Dean’s whispering them in his ear. He imagines something underneath the matter-of-fact tone, something _hungry_ that makes it less of a decision and more of a promise. _I’ll talk with him about it,_ Dean’s voice says, and his brain jumps ahead of him. He can picture Dean’s idea of a “talk”: _Can you give me one reason not to beat your ass right now?_ He comes all over the shower curtain, and as he splashes water over the stains the guilt and wrongness of it hits him. He pushes it to the back of his mind, focuses on rinsing the last of the shampoo from his hair.

When he gets out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, he realizes that he’s brought his shirt, socks and jeans into the bathroom, but no underwear. He’s not sure whether or not he did it on purpose. He’s not sure he wants to know. But Dad will be going any minute, and he doesn’t have time to go find any now.

Dad’s ready to leave once Sam emerges from the bathroom, and he only pauses briefly to address his youngest. “You behave for Dean,” he warns. “If he has any problems with you while I’m gone, he has my permission to take care of it, and I’ll double it when I get home.”

Sam can feel his stomach tighten. If he needed proof that he’s been pushing the limit lately, here it is. He’s only vaguely aware of the front door slamming and the Impala’s engine revving and fading. He stands rooted to the spot until he feels Dean’s fingers close around his shoulder.

“We need to have a little talk, Sammy,” he says. Sam allows himself to be guided into the living room. Dean pushes him onto the couch and folds his arms, looking down at him.

“You’ve been getting a little too big for your britches lately,” he says in that singular voice he always uses when Sam’s about to get spanked—mock angry, but still so unmistakably pleased. And determined as hell. “Now, I don’t know what you’ve gotten into your head, but I told Dad I’d straighten you out. Do you have any excuses for the way you’ve been acting?”

Sam swallows. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says softly, uncertainly. “I haven’t been doing anything—”

“Oh, right, Sam, screwing up training three times this month? All accidents?”

“I really did forget the second box of—” Sam starts.

“I’m not talking about forgetting the guns, Sammy, I’m talking about the way you split off from me and we were late getting back because of it. I lied to save your ass from Dad, remember? Only I don’t think I did you any favors, because didn’t you break the window the next day?”

“Those were accidents!” Sam protests loudly.

“Were they?” Dean asks, glaring at him.

Sam fidgets and drops his eyes. “Maybe?” he asks. It’s definitely a question.

“Try yes or no,” Dean suggests. “And think carefully, because I’m not going to tolerate you lying to me.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says meekly, putting his head in his hands.

“Do you need help remembering?” Dean asks scornfully.

Sam shrugs helplessly, and Dean sighs loudly.

“Scoot over,” he orders, and he sits down to Sam’s left, tugs Sam’s arm until Sam slides obediently over his lap. He leaves the jeans up as he begins slapping, slow, firm spanks that echo loudly across the quiet room. The effect builds up, and after a dozen or so smacks Sam can’t help squirming as his brother’s palm descends on the stinging surface. Dean stops.

“Well, Sam? Have all your little problems lately just been… accidents?”

Sam clenches his butt cheeks, weighing his options. “I…I guess not,” he confesses, wishing Dean’s hand wasn’t resting on his back, keeping him from sitting up or reaching back to rub at the noticeable heat.

“So why the hell would you do something like that?” Dean wants to know. Only he already knows, they both do. But Sam answers, and the bluff holds.

“I guess I was just bored.” It’s close to the truth.

Dean sighs then, and if Sam didn’t know better he would think there was some remorse in Dean’s voice. “Stand up.”

He stands up quickly, awkwardly, his hands itching to rush to his backside. He keeps the palms anchored against his legs, even when Dean reaches out and begins to unbutton his jeans. Sam bites the inside of his lip and tastes the raw warmth, trying to focus on something he’s controlling as Dean’s hands freeze beside his growing erection.

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, and tries to hide a sudden smirk, but Sam doesn’t say anything, just stares at Dean, praying he’ll take it at face value. Dean knows to keep it simple.

And he does. He doesn’t say a word about Sam’s lack of underwear as he maneuvers his brother back over his knees carefully.

“Why are you getting this spanking, Sammy?” he asks. There’s no sign in his voice that he remembers what happened last time he spanked his little brother, no sign that anything about this isn’t perfectly normal.

Sam relaxes. This is familiar territory. “Because I’ve been acting out, and having some attitude problems,” he admits.

“That’s right,” Dean confirms, and then his hand descends on Sam’s bare bottom. The smacks are rhythmic and solid, not enough yet to make Sam cry out, but they’ll be adding up. They always do.

This spanking is milder than most, and Sam wonders briefly what Dean’s reasons are, but he doesn’t really care. Dean’s hands against his bare skin are taking up his undivided attention, even if they’re coming down in punishing smacks. He tries his best to hold still, to avoid losing control again as the warmth in his ass starts to get uncomfortable.

He’s not sure if Dean is increasing the force he’s putting into it, or if it’s just the collision of skin on well-punished skin that makes the pain escalate. Either way, his backside is burning and he no longer seems to care that Dean’s touching him. He knows he was stupid to think about this, to—

He pushes those thoughts away and realizes he’s whimpering in pain now, a high-pitched whine in his throat as Dean smacks relentlessly.

“Am I going to see an improvement in your behavior?” Dean asks sternly, his hand descending on Sam’s bottom again and again.

“Noooo,” Sam whines, and Dean lands two particularly stinging swats to his bare thighs before his brain kicks in. “I mean yes, Dean, yes! I am gonna improve my behavior! I promise.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” Dean says encouragingly. “That’s my good boy.”

He stops spanking, pats Sam on the back to let him know it’s over. Sam stands slowly and turns away, trying not to call attention to a raging erection as he pulls his pants back over his ass. The denim scratches roughly against his tender skin, and he knows that if he opens his mouth his voice will be shaking. He’s close to crying.

“You think you can behave yourself from now on, kid?” Dean asks kindly as Sam turns back to him.

Sam gives a small nod and Dean grins. “Come here,” he demands, and Sam allows himself to be pulled onto Dean’s lap for a rough hug. Suddenly the burn in his ass and the lump in his throat are almost worth it. Only they’re not, of course they’re not, he tells himself. It’s just good to know that Dean’s there for him, that Dean cares. That’s it. It’s good to be comforted.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Dean asks after a minute, his head resting on top of Sam’s.

“I’m not too much trouble?” Sam asks shyly, looking up into his brother’s eyes.

“Well, you need to be kept in line sometimes,” Dean allows, eyes gleaming and a smile curving his lips. “But I don’t really mind.”

Sam doesn’t mind either, but he doesn’t say that. He smiles awkwardly and gets up, and if Dean thinks there’s anything funny about him taking two showers in one morning, he doesn’t mention it. They don’t say another word, but Sam’s behavior does improve, for what that’s worth.

For a week or so.


End file.
